


The time is now

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Love, M/M, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Soul clocks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:42:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone has a soulmate . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Man out of time

**Author's Note:**

> [Written for Lewis Fanworks Summer Challenge 2013 on LJ](http://lewis-challenge.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> This story is set in an AU where everyone is born with a clock on the inside of one of their wrists, that looks like an ever-changing tattoo on their skin. These 'soul clocks' counts down to the moment when the individual meets their soul mate.
> 
> Warnings for mention of childhood trauma such as abuse and neglect. No actual descriptions of these experiences, but discussion of their biological and relational sequelae.  
> Reference to canon-compliant character death.  
> Also brief mention of abortion as an issue (no details).
> 
> Thanks to [Lindenharp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp) for great beta-ing and for encouraging me to persevere at a stage when the fic didn't really make a great deal of sense!

It’s been a tough week at work. Not the kind of horror tough when you work out too late that the murderer is the ex, the angry, estranged ex, the father of those beautiful, now also lost, boys. Or the terrifying tough when you stride through a garden gate, buoyant with the knowledge of exactly which clever questions you want to ask the suspect, only to find that your even cleverer sergeant worked it out ten minutes before you and is currently standing in the centre of the manicured lawn—pale as a corpse and all alone—a shotgun trained on him. No, it’s just been a tedious, frustrating week, and James (the clever sergeant), has also been the awkward sergeant, the irritating sergeant, the detached, shut down, maddeningly opaque sergeant. So Lewis sits by himself on his sofa watching the telly, and it’s a relief—of an empty sort—to have a break from the efforts of trying to understand the minds of criminals and sergeants. 

The programme he’s been watching—a re-run of QI in which Stephen Fry looks astonishingly young—ends. There’s the usual ads for food and cars and insurance, and Lewis sits there—lethargic and not really paying attention—until the next programme comes on. It’s one of those reality shows that follow people in the final hours before they meet their soul mate. God, he can’t bear these shows. Val used to watch them all the time, addicted to the thrill of that moment when the clock on the inside of the person’s wrist that’s been counting down since the moment they were born—shown in ultra close-up on the screen of course—finally hits zero. And then the camera pans out to show another soul—whose own clock has also just ended its decade’s countdown—wandering into the room looking shell-shocked, knowing who the love of their life is, finally. Every single person is born with an inky black clock face on the inside of one of their wrists, looking like a living, pulsing tattoo on their skin, as the line of numbers on the face that count down years and weeks and minutes and seconds, beats and changes, moment by moment. You’d think people would be over the excitement by now, because if the historians and scientists are right, we’ve had some form of soul clock for as long as we’ve had some sense of time. There are cave drawings that represent soul clocks. They think Stonehenge might in some way represent a soul clock, for God’s sake! Really, you’d think they’d find something else to talk about. You’d think they’d find something else to make bloody telly programmes about.

Actually, if he’s totally honest with himself, secretly he’d quite liked watching these countdown programmes with Val, though given how much he’d grumbled at the time, she’d never have known. Probably what he’d really liked was the feel of her feet tucked under his thigh to keep warm, and the soppy grin on her face. Now he can’t stand the shows, can’t handle seeing all that hope and happiness. And he hates that he’s become someone who can’t tolerate too much happiness in others. 

Lewis’ clock—which of course had shown zero—that comforting, fertile ovate—all the years he and Val were together, came to life as Val lay dying with the pretty dress she had just bought in a bag beside her. But that day Lewis had been busy interviewing witnesses and he hadn’t noticed. If he had just glanced at his wrist. If he had just felt warm and decided to roll up his sleeves. If. If (he has told himself a thousand times), he had just been the observant detective he should have been, he would have seen the time and date of her death developing in funereal black on his wrist as she had faded.

He still can’t bear to catch even a glimpse of the clock face on the inside of his wrist—that tattooed memorial to his beloved wife. So he protects himself by wearing his watch the wrong way round so that the face is on the inside of his wrist, covering his clock face. Even in the shower, he’s careful never to look as he gently washes clean those cruel numbers.

He switches to another channel and watches three old episodes of Time Team, back-to-back, until it’s safe to be alone with his thoughts, with his heart, again. Eventually he goes to bed.


	2. Clock without hands

Lewis is pacing by the side of the hospital bed, furious and shaking. Two hours earlier he’d carried James out of Zoe Kenneth’s burning house, only to then have to physically restrain him to stop the stupid bastard from running straight back in again. He wants to cry. He wants to shout. He wants to shout about the utter bloody selfishness of putting him through this—when he has already lost so much. He turns to look at the man in the bed, still asleep, soot and brick dust dulling his hair. He looks so young. As Lewis watches, James mutters something in his sleep, and frowns. He shifts position a little and his arm turns over. And there is his clock face, which Lewis realises he’s never seen. The clock is blank. There’s no count down going on. No zero. No fixed date. Nothing. Lewis’ heart contracts painfully, because of course a blank clock face can only mean one thing—that there’s no soul mate out there patiently waiting for James, and there never has been. And that James knows that. _Oh God. James._ And to imagine he’d thought he couldn’t feel any worse today.

He stares, can’t help himself even though he knows that if James were awake he would never allow this unmarked, vulnerable part of him show. Why else—he realises now—why else does he never role his shirt sleeves up at work? Then he cringes as he thinks about the number of times he’s mocked James for wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt under a short-sleeved one—a fashion he had thought was completely daft. _Christ._

Of course Lewis knows that some clocks never start—it’s not even that uncommon. But he’s never seen a blank clock face, and no one really talks about it, because it’s much easier to pretend that everyone has a soul mate. That everyone will live happily ever after. Of course he only has to look at the divorce and misery and even murder around him to know that it’s not as simple as that. For one thing, you can meet your soul mate and still mess it up. For another, you can meet your soul mate . . . and lose them. And once your soul mate dies, it’s very rare for a clock to re-start, counting down to a second love. They say ‘one in a hundred never start; one in a thousand start again.’ But they say it quietly, so that the lovesick majority don’t have to hear.

Lewis stands by the side of James’ bed, his earlier anger transformed through this bitter alchemy—fiery copper turned to lead and salt water. He watches his young sergeant, his awkward friend, as he sleeps. He feels the weight of grief heaped on his chest, bruising his heart. If he could have wished one thing for James it would have been love—the kind of honest, unfailing love that he and Val had. The kind of love it is now clear James has never and will never know. He gently takes his sergeant’s hand in his own and holds it tenderly for a moment or two, then turns it over and places it palm-down on the blanket, the clock face safely hidden again.

____________________________

Two days later James is at home, recovering from the effects of smoke inhalation and wondering if recovery will also be possible for his relationship with his boss. To James’ surprise, Lewis seems sad rather than angry, and is clearly struggling to talk to him—even to be in the same room as him. James has no idea what he can do to improve matters, though it is clear to him that giving up on any thoughts of trying to find comfort with another human being—an endeavour that evidently can never come to anything anyway—is a place to start. 

James knows that most people date and flirt and even sleep around while they’re waiting to meet their soul mates. He knows that people find ways to pass the time, that they try and find a bit of companionship while they’re waiting for the one that matters. And this flirting and fucking for the most part is fine, because most people have no great hopes or expectations of it. To the majority, it’s unimportant, throwaway. James has had enough of being unimportant. Throwaway. Of not mattering. Of needing and wanting more than can ever be possible with someone who is not a soul mate. Zoe Kenneth saw this need, this yearning in him, and look how that turned out. No. He really has to be done with this now.

While James is attempting to reconcile himself to a life without love (and not for the first time), Lewis, in fact, is at the mortuary, getting the post-mortem report on an unfortunate man who was found in Port Meadow in the early hours, rain-soaked and stabbed several times. Laura talks him though her findings, and he thanks her but doesn’t move to go. She raises an eyebrow: 

“Got nothing else to do, Robbie?”

He sighs. “Laura, why do some people’s clocks never start?”

She eyes him, coolly. “I can’t see how that relates to this poor gentleman—his clock had clearly been counting down at the time of his death—though he wasn’t going to meet whoever it was for another six years.” 

“It’s just background for a case, Laura.”

She shoots him a look that says _if you say so_ , but lets it go.

“Well, cases of clocks not starting at birth have been linked to a range of foetal abnormalities and also birth trauma. Actually, though, what most people don’t think about is that it’s much more common for clocks to start and then blank out in childhood.” 

He looks away. He really doesn’t want to hear it but he asks anyway: “Caused by . . . ?”

“Caused by childhood trauma of some sort usually—abuse, neglect, loss. As far as we know, the mechanism of action is through prolonged excess production of stress hormones, particularly cortisol. Occasionally clocks that have blanked in childhood spontaneously restart later in life. How the horological system corrects itself isn’t exactly understood—well—not in terms of the biology of it—but a safe and loving attachment figure . . .” 

He shoots her a look that says “bloody psychobabble!” though he doesn’t actually interrupt her. She grins and carries on:

“. . . good adoptive parents for example, a kind and constant teacher, or a loving adult partner, appears to be key.”

Robbie nods. “Is there some sort of medical treatment?” It would be just like James to not seek help, to take the most difficult path, when there’s a perfectly good treatment available. 

“Well, nothing in the way of drugs. Psychotherapies that try to provide the same kind of positive attachment experiences can be helpful sometimes, I think. Maybe things that impact cortisol production—meditation, that sort of thing? Not really my area. Sorry. My patients are usually past caring about their love lives.”

And so Lewis thanks Laura and walks slowly back to the office, utterly unmotivated to solve this most recent murder. As he walks, he replays memories of James, his frustrations with him, his deep affection for the man—seeing everything anew through this dark lens.


	3. The clock is ticking

James has been back at work three weeks and things are better than they were with Lewis, but they’re not great. Lewis is his usual gruff self for the most part, and they’re friendly enough with each other. But every now and then, when it goes quiet in the office, when they’re both thinking or writing, he knows that Lewis is watching him. He can feel those shrewd blue eyes on him, and it’s like he has no place to hide. It’s not that he feels unsafe or judged, but Lewis is the most adept observer of people he knows, and he feels seen—seen more than he’s comfortable with. 

It happens several times one particular Tuesday morning and it makes James feel raw and exposed. He opens his mouth to say something sufficiently cutting to make Lewis look away, but in fact it’s Lewis who snaps:

“You got fleas, Sergeant?”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“You heard me. Have you got fleas? You’ve been scratching for the last ruddy hour. Getting on me nerves.”

James hadn’t even been aware that he’d been scratching, but as he glances down, he sees that the index finger of his left hand is jammed under his right shirt cuff, rubbing away at the inside of his right wrist. Now he’s paying attention, he notices that there’s a continuous pulsing itch there. He pulls back the cuff to have a look, expecting some sort of insect bite. What he’s not expecting to see are numbers—a line of numbers on his clock face: 

0—4—3—9—10—48

That is:

0 years—4 weeks—3 days—9 hours—10 minutes—48 seconds

He stares. Can’t make sense of what he’s seeing. He rubs the still itchy clock face, as if the numbers might smudge and disappear.

He looks again. 

0—4—3—9—10—33

These aren’t just fixed numbers—they’re counting down. Apparently, according to the clock face on his wrist—the clock face that has been as empty as a drunk father’s promises for as long as he can remember—apparently, in just over four weeks time, he’s going to meet his soul mate. _What the fuck is this?_

“You all right, Sergeant? What you found? An elephant bite?”

James jerks his head up to see his boss walking round the desk towards him. He yanks his cuff back down, suddenly aware of how flushed and agitated he must look.

“Not quite sir.”

“It’s not bloody fleas, is it? You haven’t taken in some mangy old stray cat have you? I know you—under that cool, over-educated exterior of yours, you’re really just a soppy bugger.”

James can’t help the snort that escapes. “You know me so well, sir. But no—no cat, no fleas. Not even a ghost of a flea.”

Lewis stares at him grumpily. “Do I want to know, Sergeant?”

“Probably not sir. The Ghost of a Flea—it’s a painting by William Blake, in which he depicts a spiritual vision he had of a . . .”

Lewis scowls and holds up his hand to stop him. “I think you can always safely assume I don’t want to hear about spiritual visions.”

“Right.” James glances down at his wrist. “It’s just a gnat bite.” He forces himself to look back at his computer screen, though he has no recollection of what he’d been reading, before. Before this fuckery.

He works as best he can for the rest of the morning, which is to say that he gets nothing of any value done and just trying to look like a sane and functioning police officer is shockingly difficult. Of course all he can feel is the itching of his bastard clock face, and his mind is alternating between swirling, panicky chaos and rigid fixation on the urge to stare at his wrist. Knowing that Lewis is subtly but nonetheless proficiently monitoring his every breath and sigh is only making staying in control of himself that much harder. 

Finally, finally, it’s 12.30. 

“I’m going out for a bit, if that’s ok with you, sir. Think I should get some antihistamine cream for the bite. I wouldn’t want to get on your nerves this afternoon. Not unintentionally.” 

Lewis acknowledges the cheek with a scowl, but lets it go. “Go on, then. You can get me a sandwich while you’re out, too. You’ll have to pay mind—I haven’t got a penny till I get to the bank.”

“Of course sir. Always an honour to shout you a cheese and pickle.” And with that he hurries off, tugging his cuff up as he steps into the corridor.

Twenty minutes later (twenty minutes that he’s monitored obsessively on his clock face), James is sitting on a park bench, his boss’ sandwich and the antihistamine cream in his pocket—the latter bought in case Lewis brings his usual terrier-like persistence to the situation. He’s staring at his clock face, watching the seconds pulse: 32—31—30. He can feel his heart racing in his chest, beating much more rapidly than his clock, and feels seasick at this mismatch of rhythms—an experience most people get used to while playing as children. It’s something that James cannot remember ever experiencing.

Though of course, he knows that it is likely that his clock did tick and pulse with life when he was a very young child. He’s done his research, has brought all of his academic prowess to the . . . issue. He conducted a systematic literature review of the biology, psychology, and theology of soul clocks in his first year at university. He even wrote his third year dissertation on the mystical beliefs associated with blank clocks in medieval Europe. From the age of eighteen he’s had a thorough understanding of the risk factors for clocks stopping in early childhood and he’s known of course that he’s experienced enough loss and neglect to explain his own blank clock face. He also understood at that tender age, that it was extremely unlikely that his clock would ever start again. Well, he had a theoretical understanding. It took years of bleak adult life to really know the meaning of this lack—to know it in his heart, his bones. The realisations in his late teens about his lack of soul mate had made the decision to apply for a place in a seminary pretty easy. Nothing though could make the reality of training to be a priest easy, or in the end even tolerable for him.

But now, now he’s got no academic distance. In fact he’s been sitting on this bench staring at his clock for so long that even when he closes his eyes, its circular outline is burned onto his retinas, as if it’s all he’ll ever be able to see again.

He rubs his hands firmly over his face. No. This is ridiculous. It means nothing. By far the most likely explanation is that it’s just another sign that his horological system is fucked. That it’s essentially messed-up, like much of his life. Actually, he has to acknowledge that that’s not quite accurate, these days. It is true that he doesn’t have a soul mate, or a family that’s worthy of the title. And his attempt to become a priest failed pretty spectacularly. But. Things have improved over the last few years. He has always had poetry and music and art for solace. But now he also has the band. He has his friends in the band. He has a job that he often doesn’t enjoy and sometimes even hates, but that gives him a reason to get out of bed every morning, a reason to leave the house and engage with the world. He has his own flat that he can withdraw to when he needs to be where people are not. Where he can read and ruminate and do whatever else he wants without interference, if not exactly in peace.

And then there’s Lewis. Their relationship is a set of contradictions and puzzles that James returns to again and again in the long, still evenings in his flat, turning the pieces around in his mind, brooding on how on earth they fit together. Lewis is his boss and as such he’s regularly pissed off or at least exasperated with James, and yet James feels closer to him than anyone he can bring to mind, past or present. They have different temperaments, different backgrounds, they’re a generation apart in age, they have few shared interests (Lewis loves rugby for God’s sake!), and yet they like each other’s company, seek each other out. And Lewis’ face is richly lined—each mark and furrow a gift from the years of worry and grief, his back gives him pain, and he carries the softness of middle age around his waist, and yet James finds him . . . beautiful. The way that he is quietly, wholly himself, with no interest in being anything other. James still doesn’t know how to do that, how to fully be that way, but he is moved by this quality in Lewis, trusts him completely because of it. Perhaps that’s why James feels steadier, more substantial himself, when he’s around him.

So no, he might not have a soul mate, or a promise of one, but his life is not without value or meaning. And what he absolutely does not need is to get all giddy and obsessed with the fucking numbers winking at him, mocking him from his wrist. No doubt they will freeze or blank out or start going backwards or something equally ridiculous at some point in the next few weeks. They are nothing more than another reminder of how crap his past is. And he has learned through miserable experience that it is always better for him to focus on the present. The past is indeed another country, and he for one is grateful that he never has to be there again.

James gets up from the bench feeling a little more settled. He’s clear now that the best way of dealing with this biological cock-up is to acknowledge that that’s exactly what it is, and then to do what he can to literally and mentally look the other way for the next four or so weeks. The date will pass, nothing will happen, and then he’ll be able to get on with his life again. He pats his pocket to check for Lewis’ sandwich and sets off back to the nick.


	4. The time is now

As it happens, the gods smile on James—he and Lewis are rushed off their feet over the next few weeks. There’s a crime wave of sorts, and never has James felt such gratitude to the criminal fraternity of Oxford. He’s busy and tired and for a large proportion of each day his mind is engaged with trying to outwit psychopathic professors and pathetic lowlifes. 

Of course, no mind can be occupied every second of every minute, but James develops a routine to manage the situation. He allows himself to check his clock face once after each meal, and no more. So, three times a day he waits to see if the second figure will blink and change. That first second always seems to take so long that every time he has the time to think _oh, it’s just stopped._ And then it changes, and his heart thumps with an answering beat, and he curses himself for the involuntary surge of false hope that washes through him. And each time it takes more discipline and strength to let that false hope go—to see it for what it is—and let it go. But, with the help of a series of murders and a mental strength that James is actually quite proud of, he gets through the four and a half weeks with his sanity and his working relationship with Lewis both intact. 

____________________________

Friday 8th May dawns overcast and damp. It’s been raining overnight, and just walking from the car park to the office leaves the bottom inch of James’ trousers wet and uncomfortable against his ankles. He and Lewis are near the bottom of the rotation, so barring a disaster, what they have ahead of them is a day of playing catch-up with their various reports. James notices himself wishing there was a murder to occupy them, and immediately feels guilty—surely he can get through one more day without the need for some poor soul to lose their life?

He makes a plan. His clock should reach zero at 7.23 pm, so what he intends to do is check it after each meal, just as he’s been doing all along. At the end of the day he’ll go straight from work to the supermarket, then go home and cook some dinner—something that won’t take long to prepare, and he’ll make the final check at 7.23 pm, immediately after he’s eaten. 

The day turns out to be quite a pleasant one, all things considered. Lewis is relaxed after the run of good results they’ve had, and he’s happy to sit and natter in between chipping away at the paperwork. He seems less melancholy than he’s been of late, and James feels happy just seeing his governor back on good form. It looks likely that they’ll get the weekend off, and Lewis suggests they go and see a film on Saturday night if the weather stays this grim. There’s a bit of banter about what to see—Lewis suggests a film that James immediately renames “Alien Punch-Up III”, which in turn has Lewis tetchily suggesting that James probably wants to see “a four and a half hour silent meditation on the loss of my bloody will to live.” All in all it’s business as usual in the office of DI Lewis and his sergeant, and James gets to the end of the day feeling calmer than he could ever have predicted.

The plan starts to unravel at ten to six, just as they’re shutting down their computers and gathering up their phones and keys. James has estimated that he needs just over an hour to get to the supermarket, do his shopping, drive home, and cook a bit of pasta. Really he needs to be out of the door by six at the very latest to have eaten in time to do his final clock check. So when the Chief Super puts her head round the door just before six, wanting to see them both, his heart sinks. 

Apparently, word has just come in that Beaumont College will be hosting a debate on Monday afternoon on the rights and ethics of abortion provision in the context of a cash-strapped NHS. It probably would have attracted a handful of peaceful protestors and not even come to the attention of the police, but for the deal made with the BBC by the college at 5 pm today, to record the debate for broadcast on television—which means that every man, woman and dog with a strong opinion on the issue will be turning up in Oxford on Monday morning, looking for an internationally televised fight. Innocent tasks Lewis and Hathaway with the job of looking after one of the debate speakers for the duration of their visit to Oxford, a role neither of them is thrilled about. So James has three quarters of an hour of stressed Chief Super and irritable Inspector—and all the while his precious time is ticking away.

He finally pulls into the supermarket car park just before seven, feeling extremely agitated—there’s no way he’ll get home before 7.23 pm. As he’s parking he revises the plan—he’ll do a quick dash round the supermarket and get back to the car in time to watch his clock reach zero. He’ll drive home once he’s steadied himself. Because regardless of his efforts over the last few weeks to keep his emotions, his longing, in check, he knows that that terrifying sense of absolute isolation he first felt as a child is going to slam into him like a drunk father’s fist, as he sits alone in his car watching his clock face hit zero or blank out again or whatever the fucking thing’s going to do.

Of course, the new plan falls apart almost as soon as it’s made. He walks in through the main entrance of the store and just has time to grab a pack of mushrooms and a red pepper before he sees a little girl, no more than three years old, standing on her own by the magazines and newspapers. She has a pink and lilac-coloured comic clutched in one hand. The other hand is balled into a fist, rubbing her eyes as she starts to wail. He looks around for another adult, but right now they’re the only two souls in the whole aisle. He walks towards her then drops down to his knees and shuffles the last few yards, so he’s not completely looming over her when he reaches her.

She’s called Ruby, she’s two and three quarters, and not only has she wandered off when her mummy told her not to, but she’s gone straight to the comics, when she’s been told she can’t have one because she’s already had an ice cream (chocolate apparently, according to the sticky residue on her chin). She tells James all of this in a solemn monologue punctuated by sobs and hiccoughs. He shows her his warrant card and explains that he’s a police officer and that he’s very good at helping little girls and boys who are lost or in a pickle. He suggests that they find someone who works at the supermarket and ask them to make an announcement. He promises he’ll stay with her until her mummy arrives, and that he’ll help her explain that she didn’t mean to wander off. Ruby wipes her runny nose on the back of her free hand (the other is still clutching the forbidden comic), and then pushes the now snotty hand into one of James’, so that she doesn’t get lost again. 

By the time an employee has been found, and they’ve in turn found the manager, and she’s made the announcement over the tannoy, and Ruby’s frantic mother has made her way to the customer service desk, and there’s been a desperate, tearful reunion, and thanks and explanations and weepy promises to never wander off again have been given, it’s 7.21 pm. While this little domestic drama has been unfolding, James’ clock face has been itching and burning, and it’s taken all of his self-control not to just shake Ruby’s hot little hand from his own and run for the exit. Now, finally freed and with less than two minutes to go, he abandons his shopping basket and jogs through the length of the shop, wanting just to get out into the open air with a bit of space around him, even if he can’t now make it all the way back to where his car is parked. 

He gets to the exit end of the shop and pushes his way through the lines of people queuing at the checkouts, squeezing past their laden trolleys, willing them to move out of the way. Finally, after several apologies and reassurances that he’s really not trying to push in the queue, he gets to the exit and ducks round to the right, heading for the overflow car park that’s round the side of the building and that tends to stay fairly empty. His wrist feels like it’s on fire as he sprints round the corner—and smacks right into a shopping trolley. It catches him hard on the hip and he staggers and crashes to his knees onto the damp gravel. His clock is ticking: 55—54—53

“For fuck’s sake! No!” He hits the ground awkwardly, and slumps forward, the palms of his hands pressed into a cold, oily puddle. His hip and knees, his wrist, his heart—everything really—hurts. It occurs to him that he might never see the point of moving again, of getting up from this hard, grey place. This really is the perfect place to watch his soul clock hit zero, the perfect place to remind him that he is about as far from finding love and comfort as it’s possible for a living being to be.

“James man! You ok?”

James looks up—startled—to see Lewis let go of the trolley and walk towards him, concern written all over his face. James notices that the index finger of Lewis’ right hand is jammed under the face of his watch, a watch that he has worn on the inside of his left wrist the whole time James has known him. James watches his governor unconsciously scratch at something under the watch face. _Oh_.

Adrenalin surges up through James’ guts and chest and he’s desperate to think, to try and make sense of what he’s seeing, but there’s no time, no time at all. He scrabbles to his feet, still staring at Lewis’ fingers digging under his watch. _Is it possible? Can Lewis’ clock be counting down too? Can Lewis be—can he be for him? No. That’s not . . ._

James’ clock is ticking—he can feel it like waves crashing against a cliff again and again, thrillingly powerful: 27—26—25

Suddenly, the only thing that matters is to know. _But how does he start? How does he even begin to have this conversation with his lovely, lonely, intensely private and as far as he knows still grieving for his wife, boss? Shit._ Only one thing comes to mind. He nods towards Lewis’ wrist, which he now appears to be trying to shred with his nails. “Have you got fleas, sir?”

Lewis follows his gaze, a look of total surprise developing as he sees his finger working away under the watch face. 

“I think you should take a look sir.” James closes the gap between them.

Lewis scowls and waves his hand dismissively, every syllable of his body language hissing _back off, Sergeant._

“I really think you should.” And James turns his own wrist over to reveal his clock face: 16—15—14

Lewis gasps and looks at James in utter confusion. James holds out his hand and Lewis gives him his left arm, more out of reflex than comprehension.

James undoes Lewis’ watchstrap with shaking hands and lifts the watch away. 

Lewis’ clock is counting down: 9—8—7

Lewis breathes out a soft “Christ” and staggers a little.

James steadies him with a hand under his arm, then holds out his right arm alongside Lewis’ left. They stand, shoulder to shoulder, as they have done a thousand times before, each comforted by the nearness of the other, as they have been on each of those thousand occasions. They watch their two clocks pulsing with life and possibility, counting down as one: 

4—3—2—1—0


	5. Life at the end of time

It’s Friday night again—four weeks to the day since their clocks hit zero in the overflow car park of their local Sainsburys. They’re at Robbie’s (as James is learning to call him), having shared a Chinese takeaway and a few beers, and now they’re watching a DVD. So some things really haven’t changed. Actually, a lot between them is just as it always was. They still get snippy with each other. They still take the piss out of each other’s taste in music and films and pretty much everything else. They still appear to have some sort of psychic connection as they pass the questioning of a recalcitrant witness back and forth between them. And they still—completely unconsciously—stand and sit and walk so close to each other that their shoulders rub and press, and their heartbeats synchronise.

One thing that is different is that as they watch Janeway and Chakotay flirt with each other and fight the Borg (they’re currently working their way through the whole of Star Trek Voyager), Robbie has an arm round James, and has undone a few of James’ shirt buttons so he can idly stroke the smooth skin of his chest and flank. They’re finding the physical side of their relationship to be an unfolding story of surprise and joy. Before James, Robbie had never been with a man, and James, well James had been with men and women, but not in any way that had ever brought him much happiness. 

Once they’d moved beyond the initial shock of “Oh God, it’s you—of course it’s you!” and had each regained the capacity for coherent thought, it hadn’t taken long for both of them to start worrying about sex. While Robbie felt instantly the truth of James being his soul mate, his love, he fretted that he wouldn’t know what to do sexually with a man, that maybe he wouldn’t want to do anything, and that James, his lovely, insecure James, would understandably feel rejected and hurt once again. James, on the other hand, had not the slightest doubt that he wanted Robbie sexually, but was convinced that Robbie couldn’t possibly be interested in him that way, and that in fact it was quite likely that he’d be horrified by the intensity of James’ desire for him. 

Of course, being Robbie and James, talking about sex, about their anxieties about sex, did not come naturally. Luckily though, Robbie is as much a doer as a thinker, and so in the spirit of discovery, a few days after the Friday evening, he simply pulled James onto his knee and kissed him. Not a wild, passionate kiss, but nonetheless the intent of it was clear. James, caught by surprise, responded instinctively, before his mind had time to start interfering and doubting. He groaned loudly and unselfconsciously, sucked Robbie’s tongue into his mouth, and they kissed each other senseless. It turns out that Robbie’s qualms about lack of skill or desire were definitely unfounded. 

Nonetheless, Robbie—demonstrating a sneakiness that many would not believe he was capable of—has insisted that he feels woefully inexperienced as a lover for James, and that the only solution he can see to this personally troubling situation, is practice. _Lots_ of practice. So most nights James finds himself the (very willing!) recipient of hours of kisses and caresses and slow, exploratory strokes, that get him so worked up, so desperate to come, that in the end all he can do is beg for release—swear and beg, threaten and beg, and even on occasion, pray and beg. Robbie always does take pity on him—eventually, propping himself up on one elbow so he can watch his beautiful, wrecked soul mate come with such force and desperation that his back arches and he cries out wildly as he once again coats his belly and chest. Certainly at these times, James is in no state to see the look of knowing delight on Robbie’s face. 

Some things at work have also changed, while others are much as they always were. It was evident from the start that they’d have to declare their soul mate status. For one thing, police regulations are clear on the matter—soul mates share a bond so powerful that it can interfere with judgement and adherence to correct procedure, particularly when one of a pair is threatened or harmed. Chief Superintendents need to know if two of their officers are soul mates, so they can decide how sensible (or not) it is for them to continue to work together. In any case, anyone even casually acquainted with Robbie and James would know instantly that something fundamental has shifted in their relationship. It might be hard to articulate exactly what’s different—it’s not as if they were coolly professional with each other prior to their encounter in the car park—but it’s obvious that something had changed, and for the better. 

So, on the Monday morning following the Friday evening, they stood side-by-side in Chief Superintendent Innocent’s office, pulled up their sleeves, turned over their wrists, and revealed their matching pair of zeros, the faintest of smirks playing at the corner of James’ mouth. To her credit, the Chief Super’s face sported a look of gobsmacked incredulity for no more than two or three seconds before she was able to offer them her congratulations and then begin to discuss—in a passably calm and business-like manner—the implications for their professional lives of this happy development. In the end, she decided that it would just be too much bother to split them up, trusting that their mutual desire to be good, honourable coppers would keep them on the straight and narrow. 

So, they’re still Inspector and Sergeant, and of course the fact that they’re both men and neither is in the first flush of youth has been the subject of much discussion round the nick. But one of the advantages of the obsession with soul mates and happy endings is that no one argues with what the soul clocks say—if you’re soul mates, then you’re meant to be together, and it’s considered bad form to suggest otherwise, regardless of who or what you are.  
____________________________

The Voyager episode finishes and James reaches for the remote. He turns the telly off then holds out his hand, the first part of their nightly ritual, the first step that takes them from sofa to bed. Robbie holds his arm out, just as he had done on that Friday night. James undoes Robbie’s watchstrap and lifts the watch away. He leans down and kisses the clock face he’s revealed. 

“I love you.” His voice is a deep rumble, his lips soft against the sensitive skin on the inside of Robbie’s wrist. He drags his mouth back and forth across the clock, hearing, feeling the moment when Robbie’s breath quickens. He looks up smiling, sees that Robbie’s eyes are dark with want. Robbie in turn holds out his hand and James offers him his right arm. Robbie brings James’ wrist to his mouth and kisses his clock face. He sucks the soft skin between his lips—then nips it hard with his teeth.

“Fuck!” James eyes widen with surprise and arousal.

“I love you too.” Robbie grins and releases James’ right arm, holding out his hand for the other. James gives him a quizzical look but offers him his left arm. Robbie brings the inside of James’ left wrist closer to his face. There’s a new tattoo there—not a soul clock—a real tattoo. The kind of tattoo that involves sitting in a shop just opposite Christ Church College, trying not to wince at the pain while your lover watches, concerned, and not in any way approving. The tattoo is simply done in black ink and looks exactly like a soul clock. Written on the face of this clock, in handsome script, are the words 

_Time discovers truth_

The scab came off a week ago but it’s still itchy and tender. James watches as Robbie kisses all around it, carefully avoiding the still-healing skin. They look at each other.

“You know I hated the idea of you getting a tattoo, don’t you? Hated the thought of you marking your skin like that.”

James sighs. “I know.”

Robbie looks at the tattoo again. “Think it’s growing on me though. It’s very you.”

James raises an eyebrow. “What—I’m an unnecessary pain?”

Robbie chuckles. “Well, I was going to say . . . I was going to say it’s clever. Elegant and clever. Wise. Just like you.” 

A little colour comes into James’ cheeks. “I told you, the words are Seneca’s, not mine—he’s the clever one.”

Robbie stands up, reaches out for James’ hands, and pulls him up off the sofa, into his arms. “Well in this household, I’m the one who’s almost as old as Seneca, and you’re definitely the clever one, Pet. And the gorgeous one, come to that.” 

James ducks down, nuzzling Robbie’s neck, pulling his shirt collar aside so he can kiss the top of his shoulder, his collar bone. Robbie sighs contentedly. “God, I’m a lucky man. Come on. Let’s turn in.” 

Robbie turns off the lamps in the lounge while James takes their plates and glasses through to the kitchen. Robbie comes to stand by the kitchen door. James is washing the few dishes at the sink—he’s got his back to Robbie.

“I’m not sure I’ve really got the hang of”—Robbie can’t quite say the words that are in his head—“ . . . using me mouth on you. Reckon it could be better—just need to do it a lot more.” He sees James instantly still, knows without having to see James’ face that his eyes have closed and he’s biting his lips together, trying not to smile. Robbie heads off down the hall towards the bedroom, then turns to face back towards the kitchen. He’s also smiling, in the dark.

“Been thinking about what I could do with me fingers while I’m . . . sucking you. We got any of that lubricant stuff left?” He hears James swear eloquently as a dropped plate hits the tiled floor and shatters.

“Don’t be long clearing that up, love. You know I need me practice.”


End file.
